Street Magic
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: A short story, written in a short period of time, concerning the fate of a certain short guy.  Atomic level spoilers for Point Blank, the summer finale.  This tale is in three parts, followed by a "bonus" chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**The Obligatory Teaser: **We all saw what happened to poor Mozzie at the end of Point Blank. ... Or did we?

**Disclaimer:** Roses are red, violets are blue. Me no own, you no sue. Gracias.

**Thank You:** to HlysComment, for some excellent constructive criticism regarding the organization of this piece and the end of Part One. (-:

**A Quote:** "All great magic tricks are composed of three acts: The Pledge, where the magician shows the audience something ordinary, but is probably not; The Turn, where the magician makes the ordinary act extraordinary; and The Prestige, where there are twists and turns, where lives hang in the balance, and you see something shocking you've never seen before."

Mr. Harry Cutter (Michael Caine), _The Prestige_, 2006

**STREET MAGIC**

_Part One: The Pledge_

Sister Mary Magdalena Carmela, a fourteen-year veteran of Saint Columba's, was out for a walk at 4:32 on a Saturday when she came upon a murder victim outside the park on Fifth Avenue. The victim was a bald, short, chubby, middle-aged man with big glasses. He was wrapped up in chic casual clothes and keeled over on his side with his hands on his chest, bleeding all over himself and looking extremely dead. That's how her police report went. Or at least that's how her police report _would_ have gone had she actually managed to file one and not spent an hour arguing with the first responders while defending her mental status.

"I'm not insane," she pleaded. Her Jersey vowels came through loud and clear along with her family's Sicilian roots; her hand gestures got wilder as she grew more frantic and indignant. "Officer, please listen to me. I'm telling you the truth. I know what I saw!"

The young beat cop was completely unimpressed with her story and the two EMTs paid no attention to her protests; they gently herded her over to a gurney so they could assess her. She tried to fend them off, but they sat her down and started taking her blood pressure and asking her if she knew what day it was. She squashed her annoyance, dragged up a bucket of patience from a very deep well, and began to answer their questions. As steamed as she was, she understood the reason for their fussing.

Somehow, in between her flagging down a businessman and borrowing his cell phone (Order Rules – she didn't own one), calling the police, and hurrying back to the scene to wait, the corpse had walked away. Not only that, it had cleaned up after itself. All that remained of a shocking crime was one tiny rust-colored spot under the bench and the crazy story of a passing nun.

Sister Mary sighed. Honestly, it sounded like the set-up for a joke. Probably a good joke, too. The trouble was that the punch line was wearing a habit, sitting on a gurney and riddled with self-doubt. Maybe she really was seeing things, she thought. It wasn't that big of a leap; she'd been working overtime at the soup kitchen for weeks now, she wasn't sleeping well, and it was getting harder and harder to focus during prayer. Perhaps this was a sign from God that she should slow down a little bit. And then fantasy kicked in, and she entertained the idea that the abbess might approve her going someplace sunny and relaxing to minister for a few weeks.

They needed nuns in the Bahamas, right?

* * *

Mozzie leaned up against the filthy alley wall, breathing slowly through his nose and gritting his teeth against his rising gorge. The bullet-proof vest had saved his life, but it was getting too tight, what with the throbbing ribs and all. His shirt was completely ruined from the burst blood pack, and his jacket was completely ruined from cleaning up the scene. He knew he was a mess; he was just glad no one could see him, and equally glad that his plan of holding his middle had kept his would-be killer from realizing he was wearing protection. The man who wanted him dead thought he was dead, and he'd escaped, and no one had seen. Mission accomplished. Well, all right, _somebody_ had seen; across the street and down half a block, he could see the EMTs trying to calm a wildly gesticulating nun. But they seemed to think she was nuts, so he had hopes that this might actually turn out all right, even though he knew he needed medical attention, like, yesterday, and this one had been way too close.

Nausea rolled through him. He took a moment to focus his chi and gently pushed down everything that was trying to come up, staying as still as possible in the hopes that the dizziness would go away. The white-hot agony about four inches south of his collarbone was not something he could fix at the moment, but he could still breathe, kind of, and he wasn't dying. (At least not right now.) However, the absolute last thing he needed to do was throw up while dealing with what was at least one broken rib. If he barfed, he'd scream. If he screamed, someone would hear. If someone heard, they would take him away on a gurney and put him in the system, the ruse would be over, and his goose would be cooked.

_No way_, he thought. _Not after everything I've been through today_. He wondered briefly when he'd be able to tell Neal where he'd hidden the actual notebook with the joint solution to the music box code. First things first; he had to get the hell out of here before he couldn't see straight anymore. Fishing his Blackberry from an inner pocket of his filthy jacket, he ignored a giant stack of missed calls and hit what he thought was Speed Dial 1. It was Speed Dial 4.

* * *

"I wasn't alone in that antique shop."

Neal's seven anguished words drove an icicle into Peter's stomach. "Oh, God. Mozzie. All right, Neal, you stay put and try to get him on the phone. The second you get an answer, call us and we'll pick him up. Diana and I will start looking. I'll send Jones to keep an eye on you."

Neal had just dialed. "Wait, I'm not coming?"

He seemed to be not quite up to speed, and genuinely baffled. The "not up to speed" part was understandable, but the "baffled" part made Peter furious. It was like Neal had no memory of what he'd done today.

Peter snapped. "Are you completely out of your mind?" he barked, and started ticking things off on his fingers. "Misappropriating FBI resources to protect a known felon. Unlocking your anklet and running off. Stealing a gun. Shooting at Fowler. _No_, you idiot, you're not coming. You've screwed up enough."

Neal was backing away. "Peter –"

"Shut up. You're under house arrest until I can figure this mess out. And I swear to God, Neal, if you try anything else…"

Neal surrendered. "Okay, okay. Go. Find Mozzie." He looked down at the phone. "Damn it. Voicemail. I'll keep trying."

"You'd better."

With one last fearsome warning look, Peter turned on his heel and left. Diana followed him out like a good soldier, and the door closed loudly behind them. The phone rang quietly in Neal's hand as it tried to connect and he looked around, feeling lost and isolated, weighed down by his guilt and worry. It was just him and Bugsy until Jones got here, and the little dog was lounging on his bed, ears low, big black eyes like marbles, judging him. Neal sighed.

"Sorry about the 'anklet as collar' thing. That was mean. You didn't deserve it."

He plopped down on the bed next to Bugsy, dialing again, bone tired from all the upheaval and trying not to panic about Mozzie. His pant leg rode up a little, revealing the anklet back in its proper place, and he petted the dog with one hand while dialing with the other. After about five minutes of silence and twenty-eight calls that went to voicemail, he started shaking his cell phone rhythmically every few seconds as though this would encourage it to ring. Bugsy hopped into his lap and Neal toed off his shoes so he could sit Indian style and make a little nest for him. Ten more minutes passed, and Neal stopped shaking the phone. He threw it on the bed in frustration, put his arms around the pug and finally allowed himself to think the horrible words, because it was the only explanation.

_Mozzie's dead. Kate's dead, Tanaka is dead, Fowler _should_ be dead, damn it, and now Mozzie's dead. _

His thoughts were chasing each other in circles, spiraling down to a terrible place. It was too much on top of too much. The ex-con buried his face in Bugsy's short fur and his shoulders shook as he gave way to grief.

Bugsy, who just assumed Neal was feeling really bad about putting such an uncomfortable collar on him earlier, turned and licked his face to let him know all was forgiven.


	2. Chapter 2

_Part Two: The Turn_

Peter and Diana were heading towards a rough(er) part of the warehouse district when Diana's cell phone rang. She figured it was Neal and picked up without even looking at it.

"Caffrey?"

"Lady Suit?" came a wobbly, weak, confused voice on the other end. "Damn, I misdialed…"

"Mozzie!" Diana would never admit it out loud, but "the short guy" had grown on her just a little and she was as freaked out as everyone else. "Peter, stop the car. Mozzie, where are you?"

Peter screeched to a halt and did a 180 at Diana's frantic "turn around" gesture. "Uh huh," she said, a few times, grabbing the Jesus handle as Peter spun the wheel. "Okay, we're coming. Stay put." She hung up. "He's in an alley off Fifth, about half a block from the park. He was sitting on a bench and someone shot him point blank, but he was wearing a vest. Trouble breathing, but other than that, he's okay."

Peter was baffled. "How did he –"

"Who knows. But he says we need to pick him up without anyone seeing."

Peter was baffled again. "Why?"

"He was saying something about blowing his cover." (Peter groaned.) "He probably needs medical attention."

"And there's no way he'll go to a hospital," Peter filled in. "Great. All right, Plan B. Maybe Dr. Rosen can make a house call. Get him on the phone and have him meet us at June's."

"No problem," Diana said. Rosen's kid was FBI, and Rosen himself was officially retired, but he did favors for the Bureau all the time. She started scrolling through her contact list.

* * *

Mozzie focused on his breathing and tried to keep his blood pumping as slowly as possible between peeks out at the scene. The EMTs and police were packing up and leaving, looking annoyed and discouraged, and a young police officer seemed to be offering to escort the nun somewhere. He watched as the nun took the officer up on it and cheerfully climbed into the back of the patrol car, behind the mesh divider. The young cop's partner, an Asian guy in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, seemed to find this funny and took shotgun.

Mozzie was having trouble finding anything remotely funny at the moment. As soon as the first responders had dispersed and there was nothing left to look at, he carefully made his way past a very smelly dumpster and sat down next to it on a patch of filthy ground. He was hurting all over and feeling lightheaded, but he was hidden from view, and at least the Suits were on their way, and when had _that_ become a positive thing? He halfheartedly cursed Neal Caffrey for getting him involved in this mess. Of course, his rational mind shouted at him, this "mess" was probably really important and/or lucrative, and he wouldn't want to be anywhere else than in the middle of the action.

But it had really been a crappy day.

When he'd shown up earlier at June's to give Neal the good news about the code and seen that Neal had left his anklet around Bugsy's neck and gone off to do whatever massively Stupid Thing he'd decided on – probably killing Fowler, if he had to guess – Mozzie had dutifully informed the Suit. And as soon as he hung up, he realized that he'd forgotten one of his notebooks at Akihiro Tanaka's antique shop, so he went back to the shop to look for it.

Of course, before he found it, he found Akihiro lying there on the floor, blood-stained, still, and most definitely past tense. If Akihiro was dead, and Akihiro was working on the music box, then he was in danger, too. He didn't even know how closely he'd missed the shooter. It was possible they'd poetically passed each other on the street, the killer leaving, him entering, just in time to find his friend's body crumpled on the floor in the back workroom. It was all he could do to bow his head, quietly clap twice to heaven in prayer, grab what he'd forgotten, and run for his life. He left the music box melody playing on its loop; it was too risky to touch anything or be seen by the video cameras.

His nearest safe house was Wednesday (he was usually there on Thursdays). After stashing the actual results, he meditated on the problem for a few moments and then decided on a solution. Hiding was the prudent thing, but _acting_ was the right thing. So he put his phone on silent, because he didn't want any disturbances, and then he strapped himself into his vest, velcroed on the fifteen blood packs, buttoned his shirt, and pocketed a small notebook full of doodles, ridiculous math that went nowhere, and a few crude limericks. And then he bought himself a coffee, sat down on a bench in public, and dangled himself out in the open like a total goober, in the hopes that whoever shot Akihiro would shoot him.

Obviously, this would not be the go-to plan for most people, but Mozzie had always prided himself on thinking outside the box, and the idea had certain advantages. Being deceased would give him an airtight alibi for … whatever. The code was broken and the answer was safely tucked away in a secure location. And now, the bullet that could help identify the man who killed Akihiro was safely lodged in his vest. Everything he'd done today would help Neal and the Suits solve this mystery. But it couldn't raise the dead.

"I'm so sorry, Akihiro," he whispered to the air, tensing up as a set of tires squeaked near the entrance of the alley. "_Gomen nasai._ _Gomen nasai._ We're gonna get the bastard, don't you worry."

The macabre image of his friend's remains was still fresh in his mind, and the realization that he'd never hear that cheerful "Moshi moshi!" again hit him like a ton of bricks. He'd never actually been sure if Akihiro was saying hello in Japanese or just trying to say "Mozzie, Mozzie," but either way, he would really miss the guy.

He heard car doors slam, then some footsteps a ways off.

"Moz?" came Peter Burke's voice.

"Suit," Mozzie managed.

The footsteps sped up and soon Mozzie found himself face to face with Neal's captor, a guy who he constantly needled, partly because he was a tool of the Man and partly because it entertaining; a guy he was now trusting to save his life. Peter didn't disappoint. With Diana's help and no comments, he righted Mozzie and supported him for a quick stagger to the car. Once Mozzie was safely in the back of the Taurus, Diana ran around to take shotgun and Peter floored it.

"Where we goin'?" Mozzie asked. He could feel himself giving out; now that he knew he was in good hands, he was shaking and his vision was blurring badly.

"June's house," Diana threw over her shoulder. "We've got an FBI doctor coming to meet us. Just hang in there, all right?"

Mozzie waved her off weakly and tried not to pass out as Peter made a hard left.

* * *

Jones was standing by at the door when the Taurus pulled up and squeaked to a halt. He and Diana safely whisked a rather nauseous Mozzie into the house while Peter parked and ran in to join them. They were working in one of the downstairs guest bedrooms, where Dr. Rosen and the housekeeper were getting the bed ready.

Mozzie got things rolling by hoarsely demanding a bucket. Between his initial nausea and Peter's driving, his chi couldn't hold up anymore. The vomiting that his body had been telling him it needed to do for the past hour finally happened, and it was noisy and spectacular. He let out a weak cry from jarring his ribs, and a few tears escaped.

"I'll start an IV and give you some compazine," Rosen said. "We can't have any more of this."

"Nah, don't bother," Mozzie said. "I'm feeling better."

"Shut up," said Diana. She'd literally jumped out of the way when he'd started vomiting into the bucket, lest he miss. "Should we lay him out on the bed?"

"Get his jacket and shirt off first," Rosen replied.

After some painful poking and prodding, an IV insertion and three FBI agents making faces at the really ugly purple spot spreading just northeast of Mozzie's sternum, the doctor gave everybody the lowdown. One rib was broken and the ribs north and south of it were badly bruised, but according to the portable X ray, the fracture was very clean and there wasn't any major internal damage. Mozzie would not be up to any kind of serious activity for a little while, and he would be a guest at June's place for at least two weeks while he recovered, but all around, he was damn lucky.

"You hear that?" Peter asked Mozzie, who had just gotten his first blast of painkillers and was starting to bliss out. "You're going to be all right. Don't worry about the vest and the bullet. It's going with me as evidence. And we know about Akihiro. We'll fix this, Moz, okay?"

"Kay," Mozzie murmured, and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, Dr. Rosen was ready to write scrips for pain meds and other things that the patient would need.

"What's the name?" he asked, pen at the ready.

Peter and his agents looked at each other. Normally, Mozzie's paranoia was a source of amusement, but considering everything that had happened today, and Mozzie's no longer quite so unreasonable fear of being in the system, they weren't about to put any of his aliases on prescriptions. So Clinton Jones was prescribed Vicodin, which he solemnly promised not to abuse, and he put on his coat and headed out to pick it up. Diana and Peter ro-sham-boed for the therapeutic breathing device, and Diana won the prize. But as Rosen wrote out the prescription for Diana's brand new incentive spirometer, Peter looked pensive.

"Peter, you look like you forgot something," Diana said.

"I think I did," Peter replied. "Where's Neal?"

Jones was almost at the door of the bedroom, and he answered. "He, uh … well, I went upstairs a while ago, and I heard things, and … I didn't want to go in there."

Peter crossed his arms. "What things?"

Jones looked embarrassed. "He was crying, man. I didn't want to barge in. He was really upset about the little guy."

And then Peter had a wordless moment. He said everything he needed to say with his face, moving from shock to despair to humiliation, and then hung his head. "Jesus."

"What?" Diana asked.

"I never called Neal to tell him that we found Mozzie. Damn it, I _knew_ I forgot to do something."

"You mean he thinks Mozzie's…"

"Dead, Jones. Yeah. You guys get out of here. I'll go make this right. Head out the back, okay?"

His agents nodded and left. Peter looked back over at Mozzie, limp as a rag doll, now dressed in clean night clothes and resting flat on his back in the bed. Dr. Rosen was repacking his bag and putting in an order of tea with Annie, one of the maids; he'd offered to stick around for a few hours to monitor things. Helga, June's housekeeper, laid a warm towel over Mozzie's chest and brought the blankets up to his chin to hold in the heat. She smiled at Peter.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll make sure Mr. Haversham is comfortable."

Peter gave her a slightly pained smile. In a house this large, with Mozzie on one end of it and Neal at almost the opposite corner, it was a safe bet that his ersatz consultant had no idea what was going on. As he climbed the giant staircase to the second floor, he started to feel guiltier and guiltier about yelling at Neal. Granted, Neal had done something unbearably stupid, _again_, but Peter was starting to understand his partner a little better; underneath that smooth façade and impressive intelligence and talent, Neal Caffrey was … a guy. He was young and energetic and impulsive, and he felt deeply and loved passionately and got angry and did crazy stuff when he was pushed too hard, like twisting a banner into an impromptu rope and doing his impression of a wrecking ball in order to almost kill somebody. He didn't think straight where women were involved, and he made lots of bad decisions, and if the noises coming from his room were any indication, he lost hope and grieved just like everybody else.

Peter steeled himself and knocked on the door. "Neal?"

He heard a throat clear, an attempt at normalcy. "Yeah? What is it, Peter?"

Peter noticed that there was no attempt by Neal to open the door and face him. "Found Mozzie. He got shot, but he's gonna be okay."

"Shot?" Neal blurted from inside the apartment, and his voice cracked. "How bad? What hospital? No, wait, don't tell me, it's probably out of my radius."

Peter smirked. "Neal, calm down. Somehow, he figured out that whoever killed Akihiro was after him, and he wore a bullet-proof vest. He messed up his ribs, but he didn't need a hospital. We brought him here. He's resting downstairs."

Immediately there were four pounding steps inside the apartment and the door swung open. Neal was a mess: shoeless, beltless, shirt undone, hair all over the place, red-rimmed eyes, pale cheeks, dark lashes stuck together in clumps. June's pug was dancing around his feet, licking his chops at Peter and wagging his tail.

"You're serious?" Neal asked.

Peter just nodded, and put out a hand on Neal's chest to stop him from flinging himself down the stairs. "He's zonked on painkillers right now. He's asleep. There's no hurry. Go wash your face; you look like crap." He gently pushed Neal back into his loft. "Go on. I'll feed little what's-his-name, over here. I think he's hungry."

Neal found the strength for a faint smile. "His name is Bugsy. And thanks, Peter." He turned and headed for the bathroom.

* * *

A little later, Peter stopped by the guest room on his way out. Elizabeth and dinner were waiting for him at home, there was nothing they could do about this music box business until Mozzie was well enough to explain what happened, and the ballistics wouldn't be back on the bullet-proof vest for a while, anyway.

For the moment, things were looking good. Mozzie, tucked away safely in the big bed, was snoring in tandem with Dr. Rosen, who apparently had figured out a way to monitor his patient in his sleep, because he'd conked out on the room's sofa. Neal was awake at least, looking a lot more presentable and relaxed than he had earlier, keeping an eye on things from his spot in an overstuffed recliner at Mozzie's bedside. He'd drawn a blanket over his legs, a small hardback book was cracked open over one of his knees, and Bugsy was napping in his lap. The partners regarded each other.

"Neal, I …"

"Peter, go home. Have dinner with your wife. We'll be okay."

"I know that. I have an assignment for you."

"What is it?"

"Stay here and guard Mozzie until he's well enough to be up and about. Someone is very interested in him quitting this nasty breathing habit, and you're not coming in to the office anyway, so you're going to be here."

"Peter, I …"

"No." Neal's crestfallen expression annoyed him. "Hey, you're lucky I don't sequester you in your room and keep you from seeing your friend. House arrest, Neal. I meant what I said. You're benched until this mess with Fowler, and the box, and whoever tried to kill Mozzie, is over. We'll fix this, and I promise, I will keep you updated, but you can't be a part of it."

"Peter, that's insane. I've proven myself."

"No. You've proven that you're a loose cannon." The quiet words brought Neal up short. "And if you put a toe outside your front door before I give permission," Peter went on, "then we're gonna have a problem, and the solution will involve an orange jumpsuit. I guarantee it."

"Are you seri –?"

"Are we understood?"

It was a visible effort for Neal to buck up and swallow his pride. He didn't want to be a bystander to something so important, but one glance at Mozzie made up his mind. Peter had never seen him look so tired. Neal nodded and finally let down his guard for a second.

"… I've lost so many people. I can't lose anybody else. You have to get this guy, Peter."

Peter regarded Mozzie too, and then met Neal's eyes. "I will."


	3. Chapter 3

_Part Three: The Prestige_

The "house arrest" thing wasn't actually as bad as either of them feared it would be. Peter honored his end of the bargain by keeping Neal updated on the case, and in return, Neal kept Peter updated about Mozzie, who was doing his breathing exercises and resting and starting to heal. Peter had intended to swing by June's to check up on things, but by the time he finally got back to her house a week had passed, and the only reason he went was because he got a text from Neal that read almost like a distress signal. It said: "M won't shut his fat yap. Help."

So Peter headed over, equal parts amused and curious, and trotted up the stairs to the second floor. "Neal?" he called as he entered his partner's quarters. At first glance it didn't look like Neal was there, but June certainly was, sitting in a ladylike pose at Neal's kitchen table and rhythmically rapping her filed nails on the surface. She looked uncharacteristically arch and peeved.

"Oh, hey, June," Peter said carefully. "I'm looking for Neal. Have you seen hi…" He trailed off. Neal was definitely in the room. He just wasn't moving, and he was facing the wall. Peter blinked. "Um, June, why is Neal standing in the corner?"

"Neal is standing in the corner because I said so, and he'll stay there until I figure out what his punishment is going to be," June said crisply. "He mistreated poor Bugsy while I was away, and I won't have it."

Peter had to bite his lip to keep from smiling. So _this_ was what all the fuss was about. Mozzie had spilled the beans and told June what Neal had done with his anklet while she was out of town. (Peter hadn't been present for it, but apparently the U.S. Marshals had had one hell of a time catching that little pug so they could unlock the device and put it back on Neal.) Neal, meanwhile, didn't make any excuses. He didn't say a word. He just slouched.

June motioned Peter close so she could whisper in his ear. "I'm experimenting with being strict."

Peter nodded and whispered back, "How's that going?"

"Not well. He's wearing me down. Really, there's no damage done, and Bugsy still trusts him, so I suppose …"

But just then, Peter had a truly evil idea, and he whispered it in her ear. June turned to him and nodded. "Neal, come here."

Embarrassed and wary, Neal left the corner and walked over to her. He couldn't hold it in anymore. "I did apologize to him," he said. "We're okay."

"Oh, you hush. Bugsy!" June turned and called her dog again, and made a few kissy noises.

Bugsy came trotting in from the hall and tried to leap into her lap. He was too short to make it on his own, so she helped him up, and once he was settled she started fiddling with something around his neck. Neal watched her movements and closed his eyes in horror when he realized what was about to happen, with _Peter Burke_ watching, no less. He'd never live this down.

"Since you're under house arrest, you can't walk Bugsy. But you will be seeing to any other need he has. You will be feeding him and bathing him and trimming his nails, something I know you just adore." June said this with a hint of sarcasm, since Bugsy was not the best bath taker or very patient with grooming. "And since you decided that Bugsy should wear your anklet … you get to wear his collar until Peter decides your house arrest is over."

Neal was resigned. "Fine. Give it to me, I'll put it on."

"No, dear. Peter will put it on you."

Neal glared at Peter. "Okay, the text message distinctly said 'help.' How does this qualify as you helping?"

Peter shrugged, unable to stop his grin. "Doesn't. Get over here."

Neal complied and at first Peter tried to fasten the thing around Neal's neck, but Neal made strangling sounds and faces and there was absolutely no way it would fit, so they settled for putting it on his right wrist. June warned him that if he removed it, a far less pleasant punishment would be determined. Bugsy, blissfully unaware, stood on his hind legs on June's lap and pawed at Neal. Neal sighed and picked him up.

"I really am sorry, June."

"I know. I also know that you'll never do this again. I care for you very much, Neal, but nobody messes with Bugsy. Am I crystal clear?"

"Yes ma'am, of course."

"Good."

"By the way, Neal, that dog collar really sets off your eyes," said Peter.

* * *

By the time the FBI caught up with Julian Larson and arrested him for the murder of Akihiro Tanaka, Neal had been un-benched for over a month. Two weeks into recovery, Mozzie was feeling a lot better and Peter had needed Neal for a case, which meant the house arrest was called off, the collar went back on Bugsy, and Neal got to see the sun again. When Mozzie found out Neal was going back to work, he was elated; Neal's well-meaning hovering had been driving him crazy. He told Neal where to find the actual solution to the code, and when Neal turned back one last time to ask if he needed anything, Mozzie stopped just shy of throwing the nearest blunt object at him and ordered him to leave.

Since returning to work, Neal had been careful to keep any and all shenanigans to a minimum. He was getting slightly better about not taking so many stupid risks with his person and with operations, but he still slipped up from time to time, so Peter was keeping a close eye on him, along with the rest of his team. Unfortunately, much like the audience's participation in a successful magic trick, everybody had their eye on the wrong con artist. The irony was that the wrong con artist wasn't even in on the trick. He was just conveniently attracting all the attention.

At the moment, Neal was observing Julian Larson. Despite being evil and having a propensity for killing things, their perp was a winner in the tall, dark, and handsome department. Broad shouldered and strong jawed, his dark hair cut short and clean, he was well built under his slick suit and looked like the prototypical man's man. He'd also said exactly four words to Peter since being arrested: "I want a lawyer." So Peter left Larson alone in an interrogation room, handcuffed to the table for optimum lonely stewing, and walked over to the observation area where Neal was intently watching the one-way window.

"Is the ballistic evidence enough to get him on Akihiro's murder?" Neal asked.

Peter shrugged and stretched, looking away from the window and considering the opposite wall's anti-motivational poster of a great white leaping out of the waves ("Flying Sharks – That's It, We're F*cked.") It had been a frustrated probie's contribution to the room a few years ago, and no one had ever taken it down.

"It's all circumstantial. Be nice if he confessed, though."

Neal eyed Larson's defiant scowl. "Yeah, not likely." And then his eyes went wide. "Oh, no."

Peter whipped around. "Oh no what? … Oh no," he repeated, as Neal hit the volume switch so they could hear what was happening.

A short figure, dressed all in black with mesh covering his face and a broad brimmed hat, had somehow slipped into the interrogation room with Larson. Peter was ready to bolt, but Neal held up a hand.

"Wait a second. Let's see what happens."

"**Julian Larson,**" came an obviously modified, growly voice from under the mesh weave. "**What do you know about magic?**"

Larson was bewildered. "What? I … I don't know anything about magic. Who are you?"

"**Silence! This is not for you to know. But I will tell you this. Every great magic trick has three parts. First, something ordinary happens. You shot two men, and they died. That is the Pledge. But then, one of those two men you shot got up and walked away. That is the Turn. And now…**"

The mesh mask was pulled down, and because the speaker was turned away from the window, the only thing Neal and Peter, along with several other gathering agents, saw was their prisoner's horrified expression.

Inside the room, Mozzie glared at the man who had tried to kill him. "Boo."

And brawny, macho Julian Larson screamed in Mozzie's face like a twelve-year-old girl and tried to get away. No easy task because he was chained to the table, which was bolted to the floor. "Oh my God! This isn't happening! You're dead! You're DEAD! You're as dead as that shopkeeper! I killed you! I killed _both_ of you!"

Which of course was the FBI agents' (and Neal's) cue to start running for the room, because they had what they needed. They just didn't get there quite fast enough.

Mozzie stopped Larson's caterwauling by punching him in the eye. "That's for Akihiro Tanaka." He hit him so hard across the cheek that one of his rings drew blood. "That's for ruining Neal Caffrey's life." Then he hit Larson one last time, smack in the middle of his face. Something snapped and he knew he'd broken the guy's nose. "By the way, the last part of the trick? This part, where a man you thought you killed comes back to life and punches your lights out?" Mozzie was furious, menacing Larson from two inches away and shouting at him. "That's called the _Prestige_, you scumbag!"

"Hey!" Neal burst in and yanked his friend away from the carnage. "Stop it! Whoa!"

"Gedd me outta here!" Larson cried, blood pouring down his face. "He'zz crazy!"

"Cram it," Peter shot at him, as Jones and Diana ran in. "We have a taped confession, without any coercion, that you murdered an innocent shopkeeper and attempted murder on this … crazy guy, over here. Jones, get him some medical attention and Diana, you start the arraignment proceedings."

The agents hopped to it, and after a few moments, Neal, Peter, and Mozzie were left alone in the interrogation room. Just as a precaution, Mozzie pulled up his mesh face mask, even though the jig was clearly up.

"**You saw nothing**," he said to Peter. "**I will escape back into the shadows, now.**"

Peter rolled his eyes and Neal somehow managed to keep a straight face, but just barely.

"Moz, stop it," Peter cut in. "There has to be an official Bureau response to this. You just played whack-a-mole with a perp. You can't do that."

Mozzie pulled down the face mask again, still angry. "I got him to confess."

"And for that, we thank you," Peter said patiently.

Mozzie sighed. "I just wanted to get the guy. Really _get_ him."

"You did, Moz," Neal said kindly. "Thanks to you, he's going to jail, and he's not getting out for a long time."

"So what's the verdict? What happens to me? A slap on the wrist? A fine? Are you gonna arrest me?"

Peter looked thoughtful. "Well, I have to call security, eventually. How about I give you a two minute head start?"

Mozzie smiled and put on his hat. "Plenty of time for an escape. You know what, Suit, you're all right." He shook Peter's hand, waved to Neal, and took off.

Peter and Neal stood in the hallway and watched him scurry out of the office towards the elevators with matching amused expressions.

"Well, we got Larson," Neal said.

"Technically, Mozzie got Larson," Peter responded.

"Well, _technically_, Larson got Mozzie first," Neal argued.

"And we all saw how that went sideways," Peter argued back.

"No kidding." Neal's brow furrowed as they walked towards the bullpen. "Hey Peter, you didn't happen to call Mozzie and tell him we had Larson in custody, did you?"

Peter shook his head. "Nope. I figured you did."

Neal shook his head, too. "That's the thing. I didn't. So how did Mozzie know to come here?"

Peter shrugged. "Magic?"

Neal smiled. "That's one word for it. Mozzie's a big believer in the whole 'never reveal your secrets' thing."

Peter nodded sagely. "Well, let's call this a mystery we don't need to unravel."

Neal was relieved. "Agreed. Besides, once you know the secret of a trick, it's ruined."

"And we wouldn't want that. Come on, Sundance, let's get some lunch."

THE END

* * *

Thoughts? Opinions? Accolades? Tomatoes? Any concrit is very welcome.

And please, press that lil' arrow button on the right one more time! It will take you to the "DVD extras." (There's one more chapter, and it's small.)

Cheers,

Kiki


	4. Chapter 4

It dawned on me (after I published, naturally) that I had left two wonderful and critical relationships out of this story. I could make the excuse that I edited this stuff out for the sake of moving the plot along, but really I just blew it and forgot. So, here are a couple of missing scenes. The first one is from Part Two. The second is from Part Three.

* * *

Elizabeth was working at her butcher-block cutting board, deftly chopping up a big bright green pile of parsley to add to the salad, when she heard scuffling sounds, keys clattering on glass, and the front door closing. Peter was home.

"Hi, honey!" she called.

Footsteps came her way, and the swinging kitchen door swung open just as she got the last of the parsley off the knife and started gathering it up. Peter stepped in, loosening his tie, looking tired and grateful to be home. Elizabeth smiled at him.

"Dinner's almost ready. You want to wash up? Oh, and while you're over there, can you get the refill bottle and top off the soap?"

"Sure," Peter said. He rolled up his sleeves and slowly got down on his hands and knees to fish around under the sink for the hand soap refill bottle, presenting his rear end to Elizabeth while he hunted.

After over ten years, she was still very pleased with the view.

"Looks like someone had a long day," Elizabeth prompted, dumping the parsley into the bowl. She plucked the big wooden fork and spoon from a nearby canister and started tossing the salad.

"Oh, you have no idea," Peter said, emerging victorious with his prize. "There was a lot of … um … excitement." He filled the hand soap on the counter and Elizabeth took the salad out to the table, setting it down next to some warm, herb-crusted tilapia filets.

"Oh?" she said, gathering up a half-full bottle of white wine and two glasses from the sideboard. "What happened?"

Peter turned on the faucet and spoke through the door. "Just Neal being Neal, mostly."

Elizabeth turned the corkscrew a few times. "Uh oh, what did he do?"

Peter came through the doorway, drying his hands on a dishtowel. He plunked himself down heavily. "Something stupid," he said, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"Peter, just because you and Neal have different methods …"

"No no no, you don't understand. Neal did something _stupid_."

She got the cork free. "'Sent back to prison' stupid?"

"Possibly. I hope not, but I'm going to be begging Hughes for some leniency after this stunt." Peter took the bottle from her and began to pour them each a glass. Elizabeth started making him a plate of fish and salad. "Somehow, he stole the key to his anklet and got it off. Then he stole a gun and went after Fowler. He didn't actually shoot anybody, but we had to arrest him, and now he's under lock and key at June's until we can figure this out."

Elizabeth stared, disturbed. She handed Peter his plate silently. Peter looked even more worn than he had when he came through the kitchen door. Elizabeth sensed he had something else to say, and she wasn't going to like it.

"… And Moz got shot."

They had fish, salad, wine, and a very civilized disagreement for dinner. Elizabeth demanded details, so Peter gave her the blow-by-blow of a very exhausting day, from Neal playing Errol Flynn at the Russian Museum to rescuing Moz in an alley. The important part, as far as she was concerned, was that her two favorite criminals were basically okay and under the same roof for a while. And she was going to stop by.

"Peter, I need to see them. Neal is having a really hard year, and I want to make sure he's all right. And I know Mozzie is a little weird, and he has trust issues, and he's a bit skittish, but we're friends! I want to visit."

Peter sighed. "Elle, I know you hate to hear this, but … no. Visiting is a terrible idea. Neal is under house arrest partly for his own protection, and someone just tried to kill Mozzie. The further away you are from this, the safer it is for you. Emotionally and physically."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Mozzie … for God's sake, honey, you're talking about him like he's Furble."

Elizabeth scowled. "I loved Furble. I'm not ashamed of that."

"Mm hm. And what was Furble?" Peter asked, with the air of a lecturing parent.

"A feral cat," Elizabeth answered with a sigh.

"And what did Furble have?"

"Rabies. … You're being so childish. It was eight years ago! We didn't even have Satchmo back then. How long are you going to keep needling me about that disaster?"

"As long as it takes for you to realize that no matter how big your heart is, there are just some relationships that aren't going to work," Peter said, taking a sip of wine. "And your heart is very big, Elle. I'm worried."

Elizabeth was touched by his concern, but she had an argument to win, so she scoffed. "Okay, first of all, I'm pretty sure that Mozzie is not a feral cat. And second, who are you to say that our relationship doesn't work? I'm never going to watch _Moon Landing, Fact or Fiction?_ or debate with him about government conspiracies, but he's friendly. He appreciates a good cup of tea. He debugged our house. He kept you safe when you were on the run that one time. We're definitely on the same side where Neal is concerned, too. He's one of us, Peter. I want to see him. I want to see both of them."

In the end, Peter's big "win" was that he got her to hold off on visiting for at least a week, to give Mozzie some time to recuperate and Neal some time to adjust to his situation.

* * *

Neal was helping Mozzie lay down for a nap after a particularly trying session with the spirometer. The former was trying to be gentle. The latter was coughing and wincing.

"Coughing is good for you, Moz," Neal reminded him. "It means nothing can settle in your lungs and mess you up."

"You're a sadist," Mozzie snapped, gripping Neal's arms for support as he was lowered towards the pillows.

Neal rolled his eyes as he settled his friend in bed. "And you're a tattletale."

The bell rang from miles off. Helga wasn't working today, and Annie was upstairs in Neal's quarters cleaning up, so Neal left Mozzie and went to answer the door himself. He was hoping it wouldn't be Peter, who had shown up yesterday to randomly torture him instead of _help_ him, as explicitly requested in the text message.

The door opened to reveal someone much more welcome. Elizabeth smiled and stepped into the entryway, burdened with two shopping bags that smelled liked cooked meat and spices. Neal shut the door, Elizabeth set the bags down, and they embraced.

"I'm so glad you're all right," she said. "I heard what happened at the museum." She looked down. "I see they got the anklet back on you."

Neal gave her a cheeky grin. "They had to get it off Bugsy first."

"I heard about that, too," Elizabeth said, a bit amused, a bit disapproving. "Husbands talk." She motioned at the dog collar on his wrist with its little jingling tags. "Nice charm bracelet, by the way."

Neal picked up her bags and felt a gentle sloshing movement. She must have packed up a month's worth of her chicken soup for Mozzie. As for her little jab, he just shined it on. "Well, you know, I was going to do one of those 'live strong' ones, but I felt this made a more profound statement."

"Mm hm," she said, indulging him. "Where's Moz?"

Neal nodded down the hall. "Fourth door on your left. I'll put this in the kitchen."

Elizabeth unwound her scarf from her neck as she clicked across the parquet floor in her heels, counting doors. The room that she peeked into was well appointed and luxurious. Mozzie, slightly propped up and half-asleep in the bed, looked a little better than Peter's description. His eyes immediately darted to her when the door squeaked.

"Hi, Moz," she said, making her way over to the bed and sitting down on the mattress by his side. "How are you feeling?"

Mozzie, wonder of wonders, fought down his skittishness and awkwardly reached for her hand, which she gladly gave him. "Doing better, Mrs. Suit. It's good to see you."

Elizabeth smiled. "It's good to see you, too. When Peter told me what happened, I was really worried."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about me," Mozzie said, puffing up a little. "I'm tough."

Neal, listening outside the door, smiled and crept noiselessly back the way he'd come. If there was one person he'd trust to be alone with Mozzie right now, it was Elizabeth Burke.

* * *

Ta-dah! Thus concludes the "DVD extras." Thanks for reading. (-:


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